


a truth should exist (it should not be used like this)

by light_loves_the_dark



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, I'm so sorry, Mention of Rape but It's Small, Missing Scene, Please Send Help, That Should Have Been In Ep 7, Violence Descriptions Are Pretty Tame, Warning: Pain, not canon divergent, s7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 03:22:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11935281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_loves_the_dark/pseuds/light_loves_the_dark
Summary: Sansa Stark thought her heart was long broken. She could be right, but the pieces, oh the pieces, are in the hands of the broken man kneeling before her.That doesn’t mean that she won’t pass the sentence, but (and gods let her father forgive her) she trembles far too much to swing the sword.-Missing Scenes from S7E7





	a truth should exist (it should not be used like this)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really sorry guys. I promise I have something fluffy and fun in the works for you. This is unedited and un-looked over really because I wanted to get it out for you guys, so it's more of a jumble of my emotions than an actual story. 
> 
> My tribute to PxS.

_i_

_We are hard on each other_  
_and call it honesty,_  
_choosing our jagged truths_  
_with care and aiming them across_  
_the neutral table._

 _The things we say are_  
_true; it is our crooked_  
_aim, our choices_  
_turn them criminal._

_ii_

_Of course your lies_  
_are more amusing:_  
_you make them new each time._

 _Your truths, painful and boring_  
_repeat themselves over & over_  
_perhaps because you own_  
_so few of them_

_iii_

_A truth should exist,_  
_it should not be used_  
_like this. If I love you_

_is that a fact or a weapon?_

_iv_

_Does the body lie_  
_moving like this, are these_  
_touches, hairs, wet_  
_soft marble my tongue runs over_  
_lies you are telling me?_

 _Your body is not a word,_  
_it does not lie or_  
_speak truth either._

 _It is only_  
_here or not here._

Margaret Atwood

 

-

 

Sansa shudders as she glances around the room; she has not step foot in her old bedroom since she had escaped from this place with Theon. Her eyes are helpless as they move over the bed; the old sheets are long gone and replaced with pure white, but Sansa can only see blood red.

Out of the corner of her eye, Arya slips into the room. Sansa looks at her sister and can only see the faces, the edge of the knife glinting in the faint lighting as she threatened to add Sansa’s face to her collection. It had been a play, a show for Petyr’s little spies, but fear had still knotted in Sansa’s stomach. She loves her sister, truly, but she fears her even now. Arya says nothing, giving Sansa a knowing look, glancing around the room with a remorseful expression.

It means more than any apologies. The compassionate girl who comforted her blind, foolish sister over the affections of a sadistic boy-king is in there, somewhere deep yet still accessible. The knot in Sansa’s stomach loosens a little more.

Bran is the last to arrive, wheeling into the room with tired arms. He nods to them both, and then the meeting begins.

Sansa’s old bedroom has been the only place that they are able to be truly alone. Petyr has spies in the crypts, the studies, even the nooks that they played in as children. There are only so many times they can all go to the Godswood together without seeming suspicious, but Petyr would never expect Sansa to return to the place where she was tortured for months.

For all that he knows her, he still believes her more delicate than she is, and that is to their advantage.

The conversation is short; there are few moves left to make, and Sansa thinks not for the first time that their plan is too simplistic. Of course, that is the intention: a plan where Littlefinger does most of the legwork. Arya and Sansa only have to make him believe that it is working. Arya will walk with a purpose around Winterfell for the remainder of the afternoon, Bran will sit in the Godswood to keep up routine, and Sansa will retreat to her study. After all, she is supposed to be deciding to kill her sister.

She will tell no one that she hopes Petyr might join her, to persuade her further. She knows that it isn’t his style to push, and the truth is that she is unlikely to see him until they are all on display this evening. Arya leaves while she thinks, perhaps eager to finally murder someone after Walder Frey, but her brother stays.

“You care for him.”

Bran looks up at her, and though his expression is still blank, Sansa can see an inkling of curiosity. She hopes that Arya is long gone.

“Bran,” she begins, her voice heavy with warning. After Ramsay, there are certain things that she will not let him touch, and her complicated feelings for Petyr Baelish are included in that category.

Bran doesn’t listen. Bran never listens anymore. “You cannot lie to me, Sansa, I saw it. I saw you smiling at him in King’s Landing, in the Eyrie, in the crypts beneath us.” Her hands curl into fists at her sides. “I saw you lying for him, saving him. I saw you calling for him in this very room; you wanted him to save you, the way you saved him. You were crying-”

“Stop!” Sansa tries to shout, but it comes out as a choked whisper. “Please stop Bran.”

Bran tilts his head, and Sansa has to blink to clear the tears from her eyes. “Do you have doubts?”

Sansa leans against the desk, spent. “No,” she replies, but she knows that she is lying. Petyr Baelish has lied and cheated and killed, but he has also teased and protected and loved. There is no one in this world that she feels more uncertain about, including her almost supernatural siblings. “You and Arya are family. He will not hurt me, but he will hurt you.” Her eyes flick to Bran’s wheelchair. For all that his mind is powerful, his body is vulnerable. If Petyr sees Arya as a threat, it is not long before he focuses on the true danger: the boy who knows all of his secrets.

Bran still stares blankly ahead. “Okay,” he says. Nothing more.

“Lady Stark?”

And of course it is Petyr at the door; he always seeks her out when his spies cannot find her, and is obviously surprised to find her in this place. She is relieved that Arya has already left; that is something she could not have explained.

“Lord Baelish, my brother wishes to go to the Godswood, but he has lost his guide.” She almost does not recognize the words that leave her mouth. “Would you mind finding him one?”

Petyr raises an eyebrow. “Of course, milady. One moment.” He ducks from the room, and thankfully Bran says nothing until a guard returns to help him. Surprisingly, Lord Baelish returns with him. Sansa knows she looks stressed and nervous, and she hopes that he thinks it is because her brother scares her. The best lies, he had always told her, are truths as well.

She lets her expression do all the talking. His lips purse in such a familiar way that she feels a little faint with the weight of what she is about to do. He is so familiar to her, so constant. She curses and dreads him, but he is part of her all the same 

Petyr holds out his arm for her, and Sansa makes herself hesitate even though all she wants to do is cling to it like a lifeline. She swallows and it hurts, like she is drowning, but she forces herself to do it three times before tucking her arm in the crook of his elbow. In her mind, she begs him to pull it tighter, but he stays loose and unselfish, likely fearful of pushing her too far. If the stakes were lower, she might laugh at the irony.

What a pair they make.

“Shall we go?” Sansa directs, careful not to meet his eyes nor look away. She must act normal.

Baelish nods, schooling his features into worry as they walk. “Are you alright, my lady?”

 _No,_ Sansa thinks. “I’m fine,” she says instead. “I have much to do, Lord Baelish.”

“Then I will escort you to your study, my lady,” he replies as they walk down the stairs together.

Lost in thought, Sansa misses the last step, stumbling. Her hand weaves up Petyr’s arm, clinging to his bicep for support. She feels the muscle contract and hold, setting her to rights. “Are you sure you are okay, Sansa?”

She nods. His arm envelops hers tightly now; though she is upright and stable now, neither of them move to change it. He must know, she thinks of her own curious behavior, but he says nothing, so neither does she.

He is still not close enough for her liking. She wants to draw Petyr out. She tells herself it is because she wants to say goodbye.

She has lost count of her own lies, especially the ones she uses on herself.  

They are walking across the ice that coats the walkways of Winterfell when on a whim, Sansa pretends to slip again. This time she nearly falls, and Petyr swings around to catch her by the waist. His gloved hand is warm on her hip despite her many layers. Their faces are only inches away from each other; she can smell the mint on his breath. He has obviously caught onto her little game, smirking just a little, but there is enough hope in his expression that it reminds her of when Rickon was little, right before their father slipped him a sweet. Sansa smiles back. _There. Goodbye, Lord Baelish._

For the first time, ‘Lord Baelish’ tastes sour despite the words existing only in her thoughts.

“You can tell me your concerns, Sansa, if you need,” Petyr says, the smirk gone and replaced with seriousness. The hand on her waist tightens so gently that she almost cannot feel it, and then it drops. They continue to walk.

“Yes, Lord Baelish. I just have a lot on my mind,” Sansa answers. It is, after all, the truth.

They have stopped at the entrance to her study. Petyr nods. “Of course, milady. Can I provide any help?”

Sansa wants to say yes. She wants to invite him into the room, and listen to whatever he has to say. Instead, she shakes her head. She cannot have him sniffing out what Arya and she have worked so hard to hide. “No, I’d prefer the counsel of my own thoughts at the moment.”

She is slow to unwind her arm from his, and perhaps it gives him courage. “Milady… _Sansa…_ I know that you will do what is right.”

Sansa does not have to hide her sad smile. Of course she will. That doesn’t mean that it is easy. She almost says as much, but instead she leaves his words hanging in the air between them. It is all they will ever truly have.

“I will see you tonight, Lord Baelish. I need you in attendance, if you are able,” she redirects.

If she had not known him for years, she would have missed the way his mouth flicked up at the corner before smoothing. “Of course, Sansa,” he promises.

Her arm finally slips from his. They have never hugged, not truly, she thinks. She represses the urge to throw herself into his arms, just for a moment, just to know what it feels like. Instead, she allows herself to squeeze his hand as she pulls away. He looks at her in shock, but she cannot regret it.

She cannot truly touch him; she cannot truly speak to him. She only has this: one façade of an embrace, of a goodbye, of an ‘I love you’ after another. It will not be Sansa and Petyr in that hall. It will be the Lady of Winterfell and Littlefinger. These are her last moments with Petyr; she will not waste them. She will be ready when she stares into the eyes of his other half.

She takes another risk, and hates herself for it. “We will speak soon, Petyr,” she says, knowing that even just using his name might jeopardize everything.  

He does not visibly react, but he smiles with his eyes. She tells herself that in this moment, it is worth it; she is repaying all of the lessons that he taught her, all of the good that he did for her. She counts another lie.  

“ _Soon_ , my love,” he echoes, the words a near whisper, taking her hand in his and turning it to expose her palm. He spends a long moment gazing at her before bending to kiss the inside of her wrist. Her heart jumps at the feeling, a mixture of disgust and desire welling in her that she has always associated with his touch.

And then he is gone, and she is alone. She readies herself for Littlefinger.

Oh, how wrong she is.

There is no Littlefinger before her, not at the end. No, it is only Petyr.

Sansa Stark had long thought her heart to be broken. She could be right, but the pieces, oh the pieces, are in the hands of the shattered man kneeling before her. He begs her, tells her that he loves her, and she believes him. The rest of the room sees a twisted monster’s last attempts to save his life, but Sansa sees the reluctant twist of his mouth before he spits out the words. It is not smooth and sweet, like the Arbor Gold of which he is so fond. It is wrecked and ugly and excruciating, but it is honest. He knows that he will be dead, no matter what he says. The truth is that Petyr Baelish lowers himself to admit his love for her in front of all of these people because he wants her to know. He wants her to remember him as someone who loved her.

Her heart lurches, and she knows that she can give him one last gift. She looks him straight in the eye and lets a teardrop slide down her cheek. His eyes flick to it and despite the panic and tears that cloud his own eyes, she thinks that she sees relief.

If he had any doubts left, she tells him that she will never forget him. She hopes that he understands what she means, because there is no time left for explanations.

Arya watches her sister for the order, and Sansa gives it. Petyr sees his death slicing toward him and chokes out her name. It sounds like ‘I love you’. It sounds like ‘I’m sorry’. His eyes stay on her as he falls, seeing her until he can no longer see. His brilliant mind ticks to a stop, and she cannot know his thoughts, but she imagines she could guess them, in those last moments.

She makes herself watch him bleed out.

 

-

 

Bran points out that they must burn the body for fear of the imminent war. She immediately sends men to build a pyre outside the walls, and orders the body to be taken there.

After everything is set up, she sends everyone away except Arya, who will not leave her side. She hopes that Arya might love her as much as Jon after this sacrifice, but she knows that it is wishful thinking. Still Arya smiles at her as she lights the torch, and a piece of their broken relationship feels repaired.

Arya moves to light the straw, but Sansa stops her. She tells her sister to wait, gazing at Petyr’s empty face, realizing this is her last sight of him. She is suddenly frantic to know if it was all a lie, even though she knows that there are no answers he has left to give. Her eyes then focus on his chest, and she is leaning forward, peeling away the clothing at his neck. Her hands become stained red with blood, but she does not notice, desperate to find skin.

_There._

“Is that the scar?” Arya asks, leaning over. Before she can see it, Sansa pulls the clothing back into place. She sees a glint of metal over his heart, reaching for it before she realizes what she is doing.

“Yes,” she says, simple and short. The scar is horrific to behold, but Sansa cannot bring herself to care. She could have loved him for it in a better world, she thinks. A world where love could overcome power and greed. She doesn’t think that he ever believed that in life.

She inhales and exhales, both shaky and resolved. He hadn’t lied, not about the scar or the boy that he had been, the boy under the monstrous mask of Littlefinger that had shone through in the Great Hall. Petyr had existed. Petyr had loved her mother. Petyr had loved her.

She takes the torch from Arya and sets the fire. Any words of goodbye turn to ash in her mouth, so she simply turns and leaves.

It is the Lady of Winterfell who walks away from the pyre, back straight and strong, where she burned the body of Littlefinger.

It is Lady Stark that nods to the knights of the Vale, who pledge to follow her for executing the murderer of their lady. Who declares that she is exhausted from the day’s events, who looks disdainfully in the direction of the place where they scattered the ashes of Lord Baelish.

But it is Sansa Stark who chokes on her tears in the hall outside her room, tearing the wolf pelt from her shoulders as soon as the door shuts behind her. Clutching the tiny silver mockingbird pin that she had stolen from his body in her fingers until they turn white. Mourning Petyr Baelish.

And it is the Sansa who could have had the iron throne, who could have worn a crown for her new house of silver and emeralds, who could have perhaps forgiven a brutal betrayal to become a Baelish, that weeps over Petyr, the boy from the Fingers. The manipulator who saved her. The lover who bought her lemons to make her smile and taught her the game of thrones.

The man who was cut down for love. Once for feelings that were boyish, but pure. Twice for tenderness that was distorted, but real.

It was _real._

Sansa breathes in and out. It doesn’t help. She pricks her finger on the pin; her blood mixes with his. She remembers how Petyr always kept his hands clean, but she is not Petyr. Her hand bleeds. She is not Petyr. She ignores Arya’s knocks, her sister’s voice full of pity and confusion but never understanding. She waits to feel the satisfaction that she felt after Ramsay. She doesn’t. She is not Ramsay, but she hated him. She is not Petyr, but he loved her. She is not Petyr –

She chokes on her words; she has been speaking aloud. Petyr always teased her when she spoke her thoughts aloud. 

Gods, she loved him.  

_It was real._

**Author's Note:**

> Again I'm really sorry - I'd love to hear any feedback though :')


End file.
